First Encounters
by Jehan's Muse
Summary: Young Jack Sparrow meets an even younger Norrington.
1. Encounter

(Updated 8/20/04, with some relatively minor changes regarding the name and James' eye color.)

I read one fic where an OC recalls having met Norrington when he was a cabin boy aboard some Navy ship or other. Which got me to thinking: I don't know how old one has to be to be a cabin boy, but I'm assuming Norrington would have grown up around ships--I imagine that his father was probably a Navy officer as well, and would want his son to take on the job after him, and so would have begun exposing Norrington to the sailing life at a young age, perhaps age 7 or 8. Jack, on the other hand, who is about ten years older than Norrington, would most likely have been a pirate from at least his early teenage years, I'm going to say 13, and therefore at the age of 17 or 18 would be somewhat of a "rookie pirate."  
  
Standard disclaimers apply.  
  
Jack Sparrow had yet to get the hang of these telescope things. He could see the deck of the other ship clearly, but when he moved the telescope it had a tendency to collapse. He settled for holding it still and waiting for a passenger to walk into the path of the lens...which could take a while, as the deck appeared to be empty.  
  
Or perhaps not. Jack moved the telescope about half an inch to the right, holding it steady with his other hand, leaning out for a closer look of the deck's sole occupant. From a distance, the figure looked tiny. Upon closer inspection, Jack decided that that was probably because the figure was tiny, a small boy, though Jack couldn't determine his age from the small glimpse he had managed to get before the boy moved out of view.  
  
"Sparrow!"  
  
Jack jumped, and very nearly dropped the telescope into the water. "Aye, Cap'n?"  
  
"What can you see of their ship?"  
  
"Doesn't look like there are many people on it." Jack proffered the telescope. "Merchant ship, probably more cargo than passengers. Some of the passengers are children."  
  
"Perfect. They won't know what's hit them." Captain Cymbeline strode off, leaving his young deckhand still clutching the telescope.  
  
Jack Sparrow leaned back against the railing. Merchant-ship raids were fun. As long as nobody died or got seriously injured, Jack enjoyed them immensely. In the event that anyone was injured...  
  
Jack raised the telescope again, peering back at the deck of the merchant ship. The little boy was nowhere to be seen. Probably for the best, he decided. Wouldn't want any of the little ones to get hurt.  
  
Little boys, however, always seemed to be lacking in a sense of what was good for them and what wasn't. Jack Sparrow, in the process of hiding from a club-wielding crewman, turned and smacked promptly into a small, dark-haired child watching boldly from the shadows. "Hello, there."  
  
"You're a pirate." The child's tone was cold and accusatory. He didn't look much older than seven. "You're trying to hurt our ship."  
  
"No, no. We don't want to hurt it. We'll let you go as soon as we're done." Jack sighed. Little boys could be so trying, with their misconceptions and wild accusations. The boy did not look in the least convinced.  
  
"Done with what?"  
  
"We're borrowing a few things. Without permission."  
  
"Stealing." The little boy folded his arms pompously. "Stealing's wrong."  
  
"No, not stealing. Stealing's very bad and people who do it should be punished. We're borrowing." Jack crouched in the shadows, behind a barrel. "Now hush, or we'll both be trouble."  
  
"Why will I be in trouble?" The boy frowned. "I haven't done anything wrong."  
  
"I'll bet your mum told you to stay in your cabin. She wouldn't like you here talking to a pirate." Anything to get rid of the kid before he sounded the alarm. He looked like a squealer.  
  
"I haven't got a mum. Nobody told me I had to stay in the cabin." The little boy thrust his chin out defiantly. "I don't have to hide in there! I'm brave!"  
  
"I'm sure you are! Now be quiet!"  
  
The child remained quiet, for perhaps ten seconds. "Why do you want to steal from us?"  
  
"It's not stealing!" Jack flexed his fingers irritably. "It's...it's just what we do. It's our job."  
  
"It's not a nice job."  
  
"Maybe not for you. Why are you still here?"  
  
The little boy contemplated this for a minute. "Because I don't want to go back out there," he said. "Last time I went out there, a man chased me with a stick. I tried to hit him back, but he caught me. So I'm staying here until he goes away."  
  
Jack nodded, impressed in spite of himself. "Tried to hit him, eh?"  
  
"Pirates are bad," said the boy firmly. "And stealing is bad. I had to stop him."  
  
Jack gave up. "If you say so. What's your name, anyway?"  
  
Perhaps this had been the wrong question to ask. The child's face clouded furiously. "I don't tell people my name! It's none of your business!" He clenched a tiny fist and seemed about to shake it in Jack's face. Jack held up a pacifying hand.  
  
"All right, all right. Only making conversation." He paused. "Why don't you want to tell people your name?"  
  
"Because they always laugh at me." The boy scowled. "They say it's a funny name."  
  
"If I promise I won't laugh, will you tell me?" Jack's curiosity was piqued. The child was strange enough as it was; he wondered what sort of name would be fitting for him.  
  
The little boy twisted his fingers uncomfortably, and raised piercingly green eyes to Jack's. "Lysander James Norrington," he said clearly, with a fierce air of defiance. "I don't care if it's a funny name. My mum gave it to me. It's Shakespeare." He faltered, and stared at the floor. "But everyone always laughs when I tell them. So I don't, not anymore."  
  
"Lysander James Norrington?" Jack raised his eyebrows. What a mouthful. "Well, you must admit, it's a pretty big name for such a little shrimp."  
  
He jumped back just in time, as the child's tiny fist swung at him. "I'm not a shrimp! How dare you call me a shrimp?" He swung again, connecting rather painfully with Jack's upper arm this time. "You said you wouldn't laugh at my name!"  
  
"I didn't laugh!" Jack held the boy still and rubbed at his arm, wincing. "I think it's a lovely name. Shakespeare. Very nice." He paused. Lysander wasn't much of a hero. Bit of a whiny lovesick brat, really. Like Romeo. He couldn't imagine why a mother would want to name her child after some moony Greek Romeo, but he didn't dare say so. That punch had hurt. "If you don't tell anyone your name, then what do they call you?"  
  
The boy shrugged. "Nobody pays much attention to me except for my papa, and he calls me Lysander. He thinks it's a stupid name, too." His tiny shoulders drooped. Jack felt sorry for the brat.  
  
"What did your mum call you?"  
  
"She didn't call me anything. She died when I was born." The boy seemed curiously indifferent, for all his sentimentality over his name. "You think it's a stupid name, too," he challenged.  
  
"Do not. But you have to have something for people to call you by." He grinned, struck by inspiration. "Why not just go by James? Perfectly respectable name, that. James L. Norrington, and nobody has to know what the L is in place of if you don't want them to."  
  
"I could change my name?" The boy glanced hopefully up at Jack with something almost resembling admiration. "I could make people call me by my middle name and they'd really do it?"  
  
"If you wanted them to." Jack stood, stretching his legs. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to be on my merry way..."  
  
Just in time, too. Twitch, Jack's fellow deckhand, dragged him out from the shadows and thrust a cutlass into his hand. "Little coward! Why aren't ye fighting?"  
  
"Fighting?" The little boy's ears pricked up. "You're fighting us?"  
  
"Who's this?" Twitch indicated the little boy with a jerk of his own cutlass. Jack shrugged.  
  
"Just a sprat. Nobody important."  
  
Twitch seemed to agree, and left to jump back into the fray. Jack glanced down at little Norrington, unprepared for the fiery hatred evident in the child's eyes.  
  
"You said you weren't fighting us! You said you wouldn't hurt us! You--you--where's my father? What have you done with my papa?" The little boy pummeled Jack fiercely with every word. "If you've killed my papa, I'll--I'll--"  
  
"Calm down!" Jack gripped the child's shoulder to steady him. "I'm sure your father's fine. You're a very violent little boy."  
  
"Where is he?" The little boy began to cry. "What have you done with him?"  
  
"He's not hurt!" Jack had no clue whether this was true or not, but the boy was in hysterics. "He'll be fine! Stop crying!"  
  
"I hate you!" the child shrieked. "I hate you! You, and all your...your pirate friends, and..."  
  
"Yes, yes, I know. Everyone hates pirates."  
  
"I'll kill you! If you ever come back, I'll kill you!" The boy shoved Jack, tiny hands pushing into the small of his back. "If you've hurt my papa..."  
  
Jack took the opportunity to run, shaking his head. Well, he thought, that had been eye-opening. He hoped they hadn't killed the child's father, whoever he was. The boy would probably grow up traumatized.  
  
The raid was over in a matter of minutes. Once back on their pirate ship, Jack flagged down Captain Cymbeline, catching his arm and lowering his voice discreetly. "Cap'n...how many did we kill?"  
  
"Not many. Four, maybe five. They didn't put up much of a fight. Probably protecting the child...only one child."  
  
"You didn't kill the lad's father, did you?"  
  
Cymbeline shrugged. "I dunno. Didn't take names."  
  
Jack sighed, and leaned against the railing again. Perhaps he'd never know what had happened to little Lysander Norrington aboard his ill-fated ship. Either way, one thing was certain--the boy hated pirates now, if he hadn't before. "If you haven't ruined at least one life by the end of it," he murmured, "the job ain't done."


	2. Epilogue: 23 Years Later

"No additional shot, no extra powder, a compass that doesn't point north--" The commodore jerked Jack's sword out of its sheath, and smirked nastily. "And I half expected it to be made of wood. You are, without a doubt, the worst pirate I've ever heard of."  
  
"But you have heard of me." Jack smiled brightly, inwardly wondering where he'd heard the name Norrington before. It was eerily familiar...he knew he'd heard it somewhere...  
  
He contemplated it all the way down to the brig. He knew that name. The commodore's face was familiar, too...the defiant jaw, improbably green eyes. Where had he met Norrington before?  
  
It hit him with a jolt. "Lysander!" he exclaimed, head snapping up.  
  
Commodore Norrington, retreating down the corridor, stopped sharply and turned. "What did you say?"  
  
"Lysander," Jack repeated, blinking in surprise. "I remember you."  
  
Lieutenant Gillette glanced between the two of them, brow furrowing in confusion. "Sir? What's he talking about?"  
  
"Nothing," said Norrington sharply. "Lock him up."  
  
"Oh, don't tell me you don't remember," said Jack, grinning wickedly. "Long time ago, wasn't it?"  
  
"Don't talk nonsense." Norrington fixed him with a furious gaze. Behind Gillette, he clenched his fists furiously at his sides. Jack winced. Those were no longer the fists of a hysterical seven-year-old. They were powerful, white-knuckled and angry. He did not bother to make eye contact as Gillette locked the cell.  
  
As the guards left, Norrington remained, striding up to the bars and gripping them furiously. "How dare you," he hissed, "bring that up in front of my lieutenants?"  
  
"Oh, come now." Jack grinned. "Old friends' reunion, eh? Couldn't wait. And my, how you've grown. So, Sander, how have your midsummer nights been?"  
  
Norrington gritted his teeth. "Don't you ever," he snarled, "ever call me that again."  
  
"Sandy, then? You seem to remember me well enough." A question tugged at the back of Jack's mind, a worrying one, but he knew it would infuriate Norrington if he were to ask. Not that that concerned Jack in the slightest. "What happened to your father?" he asked, lowering his voice respectfully. "I never found out."  
  
Norrington released the bars contemptuously. "He was injured," he said, his eyes darkening. "He lived, but he lost an eye."  
  
Jack winced. "My condolences," he said. Norrington turned to leave.  
  
"Save your condolences," he spat. "Father would have been insulted by them."  
  
Jack watched him leave without another word. He wondered what else had happened to transform Norrington from the fiery little boy he'd once met to the cold, bitter man he saw now. He hoped it hadn't been entirely his fault. He didn't need that on his conscience as well.  
  
I'm aware of the slight inconsistency, where I made it seem like Jack went straight from the original confrontation with Norrington to the brig. We'll write it off as poetic license.  
  
Ave atque vale,  
  
--Jehan's Muse 


End file.
